


corresponding shapes

by WeeBeastie



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Lots of different things, M/M, Some angst with a side of fluff and sweetness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-06
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-10-15 20:09:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10556976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeeBeastie/pseuds/WeeBeastie
Summary: i am thinking it's a sign that the freckles in our eyes are mirror images and when we kiss they're perfectly aligned





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a collection of little drabbles that have been knocking around in my head lately. They're set vaguely season 3/4ish, and are not meant to be in chronological order. No real plot, I just felt like writing some sweet, sad, occasionally silly things. 
> 
> Rated M for hints at sexy times. Title taken from the Postal Service song “Such Great Heights,” because apparently that's my deal, naming my fics after songs. Hat tip to the Iron & Wine cover of the song in particular, since I was listening to it while writing the end of this. Unbeta’d except for the very last scene, which I would like to dedicate to [vowelinthug](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vowelinthug) for helping me put a final polish on it. Thanks again! <333

It takes time, but eventually, Flint and Silver find themselves sharing a bed every night, lying next to each other in Flint’s cabin in the sweet, soft dark. They usually don't fall asleep touching, but without fail, just before dawn, Flint wakes to Silver’s arms around his waist or Silver’s forehead pressed to his shoulder or Silver’s face buried in what's left of his hair. Even, more than once, Silver’s head pillowed on his chest.

Flint aches to ask, to know, why Silver seems to crave this closeness so desperately but won't let himself act on it until he sleeps. Of course they touch gently in their waking hours, too; their partnership is not solely made of teeth and blood and flaring tempers. But for Silver, sleep seems to be a release, to allow him to cling fiercely to Flint in a way he doesn't (won't, can't) while awake.

On yet another morning when he wakes with Silver’s head heavy on his chest and Silver’s body curled tight to his own, Flint ponders what about Silver’s past could have made him this way. He thinks, and he holds Silver that much tighter for his thoughts.

\---

One afternoon Flint enters his cabin to find Silver sitting at his desk, a torn white shirt of Flint’s in his lap and a threaded needle in his right hand. He's steadily sewing up the tear in the shirtsleeve, and singing under his breath while he does. Flint has heard Silver sing before, often, but he's never seen him sew.

“I didn't know you could sew things,” Flint says, standing back from the desk and watching Silver’s nimble fingers. A pile of clothing, Flint’s and Silver’s both, is sitting on the desk freshly mended.

“All good sailors can sew,” Silver replies, finishing his work and biting the thread off. 

“But you aren't a good sailor, you don't even like the sea,” Flint points out, making Silver snort, “so your flippant excuse for an answer explains nothing.” He looks at him, expectant.

Silver just smiles benignly and holds the shirt out to Flint, who stares at it dumbly for a moment before taking it. “Here. It's all done. You don't have to go around looking like an urchin anymore,” he says, teasing, then stands stiffly, like he's been sitting for hours, and makes his way to the door. 

Flint watches him go.

\---

They're meant to be getting drunk together, but Silver has somehow managed to drink much more, much faster than Flint. As such, he's soused while Flint is still only tipsy. Flint is sitting in his desk chair and Silver, who never can remain upright when he drinks (couldn't even when he was whole), is on the floor in a heap with his head resting on Flint’s thigh, one arm wrapped around his leg.

“What would you have done if I died?” Silver asks, head lolling so he can scrutinize Flint from his position. “When I lost my leg.”

“I didn't really let myself think about it,” Flint says honestly, and is only mildly surprised to find his hand is cradling the back of Silver’s head, his fingers entwined in silky dark curls.

Silver licks his lips and gazes off into space, and Flint thinks he's lost the thread of the conversation already when he suddenly speaks again. “Do monsters ever die?” he asks with a tremor in his voice, tipping his head back and looking at Flint again, expression inscrutable.

“I don't know,” Flint says, barely above a whisper. When Silver doesn't say anything else, Flint looks down and realizes he's passed out.

\---

Flint is allowing himself to indulge in the rare luxury of a bath when Silver, who had been taking a post-coital nap in their (just when exactly did it become _theirs_ and not Flint’s) bed, crutches over to the tub and carefully climbs in with Flint as though he's been invited. The tub is nowhere big enough for two fully grown men, and water cascades over the sides.

“Does the concept of personal space mean nothing to you?” Flint asks dryly, fingers tightening on the soft cloth in his hand.

Silver ducks his head under the surface and then sits back up, shaking water everywhere like a dog. “I needed a bath after what we did,” he says, a self-satisfied grin on his face.

“As did I. Which is why I prepared one. For myself,” Flint says pointedly, but he can tell Silver has chosen to blithely ignore his protests. Typical. He studies Silver and leans in with the cloth in his hand, swiping at something dubiously sticky in Silver’s beard.

“Quit that, I can wash myself,” Silver says, leaning back out of Flint’s reach. He gives him a sly look, then skims his hand across the surface of the water to splash Flint right in the face.

Flint sputters, then drops the cloth and lurches toward Silver to grapple with him. “You are an absolute fucking child,” he says as they wrestle playfully within the confines of the wooden tub.

One moment they're play-fighting and the next the tub has tipped over, water and Flint and Silver all spilling out. Flint tries to be angry with Silver for ruining his bath and wasting so much water, but Silver is laughing so hard he's got tears running down his face, and Flint can't help but join him.

\---

Silver is lying on his back, catching his breath, his whole body flushed. A look of utter satisfaction has stolen over his face, and he reaches down to haul Flint up bodily and kiss him, uncaring where his mouth has recently been.

When Flint pulls back, he studies Silver’s face and reaches out to wind a stray curl around his fingers. Times like these, he can't seem to keep his hands off Silver and his hair. “Do you know that some of the crew think we can read each other's minds?” he asks, looking into his clear, calm blue eyes.

“You mean you can't read mine?” Silver asks, smirking. “Because I can certainly read yours. I know what you're thinking as soon as you think it,” he rumbles confidently.

“Is that so?” Flint asks, leaning down to bite Silver’s nipple, making him yelp in surprise. “Somehow I doubt your assertion. What, pray tell, am I thinking about right now?” he asks.

“Hm, you're thinking that right now all you want is to feel the ecstasy of my extraordinarily talented tongue deep, deep in your--” Silver is unceremoniously shut up by Flint kissing him again, heatedly. 

“Lucky guess,” Flint whispers when he pulls back, then flips them over easy as you please so Silver can continue reading his mind.

\---

“...so I said to the maharajah, that's not an elephant, that's my sister!” Silver is saying as Flint arrives belowdecks, his face animated and hands gesticulating wildly. The crew erupts in raucous laughter and Silver grins, sticking his pipe back in his mouth. He's holding forth from a dark corner, haloed in smoke from his tobacco and entertaining the crew with his ribald tales from far-off lands. 

“You've been to India?” Flint asks, sitting down next to Silver with a cup of rum.

“For the purposes of the tale, yes. In that scenario I also have a sister,” Silver says coolly, mirth suddenly gone, taking a drag from his pipe and slowly exhaling. He's familiar with this type of questioning from Flint and it's clear he does not enjoy it.

“A few of them probably think all your stories are true,” Flint says without looking at Silver, staring instead down into his drink.

“Don't start. They're the truth, even if they didn't happen,” Silver says, glancing over at Flint before returning his attention to his pipe. “The crew can believe what they like.”

“Sometimes I think you'd rather no one knows who you really are or where you actually come from,” Flint muses, giving Silver a sideways look. They're looking at each other in turns, never quite meeting each other's gaze. On Silver’s part it seems deliberate.

“That's the general idea,” Silver mutters under his breath, taking Flint’s cup from him and draining it all in one go. He stands up and makes his way unsteadily away from Flint, away from the rest of the men. Tension is visible in the set of his shoulders.

All Flint can think is that he wishes he'd heard the rest of that story, true or otherwise.

\---

After their sword fighting lesson has concluded for the day and they've had supper with the rest of the Maroon camp, Flint invites Silver to his room for a drink. Silver readily accepts, and this is how they find themselves sitting together deep into the night, long after the decent folk of the island have gone to sleep.

“I didn't mean to upset you,” Flint says, breaking the mostly-comfortable silence. He studies Silver in the low light, trying to read him. “Asking you about yourself. It's...I want to really know you, John. To understand you, to get a feel for where you come from.”

“You do know me, better than anyone. You understand me more deeply and truly than I understand myself, in many ways,” Silver says. He runs his finger around the bottom of his empty cup and sticks it in his mouth for a moment, chasing the taste of the rum. “As for where I come from...I chose my words very carefully, earlier.”

“How do you mean?” Flint asks, sitting back in his chair and kicking his legs out in front of him.

Silver shifts into a corresponding shape to take pressure off his stump. He has yet to remove his prosthetic for the night, having put it back on earlier after their lesson. “I said that you know all of me I can bear to be known,” he says, hands clutching at his cup tighter than before. “Not all I want to tell you, or all I could trust you with, or even all I can remember.” He looks at Flint and his eyes are shining, wet. “If you knew _everything_...I couldn't bear it, James,” he says, voice gone soft and hoarse. He looks away from Flint and it's as though he's looking into his own past, lost in some unending horror.

Flint stands suddenly, needing to touch Silver, to bring him back to the present and anchor him there. As soon as Flint stands, Silver drops his cup with a loud clang and flinches back, raising one arm over his face to protect himself like he's expecting to be struck. When he abruptly realizes where he is and who he's with, Silver lets his arm drop, a look of shame and utter devastation crossing his face.

“John...” Flint begins, but finds there is nothing he can say. What Silver has told him about himself in the past is not enough and they both know it, but Flint can't say those words to him, not now. Instead he falls to his knees in front of Silver, reaching out to cradle his head in both hands and then leaning in to press their foreheads together gently.

Silver doesn't sob, doesn't make any noise at all, but Flint can feel the warmth of his tears on his face just the same. Silver’s hands find their way to the back of Flint’s neck and he holds tight, just this side of painful, like Flint is the only thing keeping him together. “Thank you,” he whispers, knowing Flint has held his tongue. He pulls back and then kisses Flint, his lips trembling.

Flint tastes the salt of the sea in Silver’s tears where they've run down his face to his mouth. He helps him to stand and guides him to the narrow bed, hardly big enough for the two of them. He sits him down and slowly, reverently, undresses Silver, beginning by carefully taking off the boot on his left leg and wincing in sympathy at the little cry Silver lets out. Afterward Flint removes his own clothes and joins him in the bed, the two of them fitting together like pieces of a puzzle. “I don't expect you to tell me anything else,” Flint whispers, doing his best to soothe Silver’s pain with gentle touches to his face, his hair, his neck.

“I know,” Silver says very softly, closing his eyes as Flint’s thumbs brush away the last remaining tears from his cheeks. “But _oh_ , would that I could.”

Flint puts his arms around Silver, and Silver lets himself be held.


End file.
